


Second Chances

by InsertRandomSnarkyPunHere



Category: 2P Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: 2p Italy centric, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Germany is Holy Roman Empire, M/M, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Relationship(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, pre-dystopia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-14
Updated: 2016-09-14
Packaged: 2018-08-15 00:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8034406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertRandomSnarkyPunHere/pseuds/InsertRandomSnarkyPunHere
Summary: He is found, but none beyond his brother remain. His brother stayed by his side as he remembered. But it does not matter, because he's fallen. He failed, and he brought the world down with him. Nothing is the same, will never be as it was before the war. And it's all his fault.-Post-WWII Luciano struggling to cope with his guilt, and the reality that he's as vulnerable as everyone else.----------------------------------------Now with playlist!





	Second Chances

The last thing he remembers for a while is the loud shock of a gun, a familiar sticky warmth against his chest, and then he is falling, _falling_. When he wakes, he is alone (or maybe he always was), _a_ _bandoned_... He feels the last recesses of power and glory crumbling and fading away, and he is _alone,_  left on the streets to die.

 

He is found, but none beyond his brother remain. His brother stays by his side as he remembers. But it does not matter, because he's fallen. He _failed,_  and he brought the world down with him. Nothing is the same, will _never_ be as it was before the war. _And it's all **his**  fault._

 

Staying in his room most days, he sleeps, more than he has in years, trying to escape this ache plaguing his heart. 

 

(He doesn't know what it is. Loneliness, maybe? Remorse? He doesn't remember how to feel those emotions that he deemed weak. Though this feeling persists, most days he is numb to everything else, a shell of the man he was before.)

 

Alas, sleep brings back old memories, ones that he forced to the back of his mind long ago. He often wakes up crying, the remnants of harsh words and the stinging throb of a whip flashing in his mind. He feels weak, _scared_ , just like he was in that house. 

 

More than ever, he remembers the way concerned violet eyes glanced from around a corner, switching to a smirk and teasing words when they noticed him watching. The same smirk they wore while clumsy hands tended to his wounds. The same clumsy hands that stroked his hair and let him cry when it was _too much_. He remembers that final goodbye. They gave him the necklace they always wore, he gave a kiss in return. A promise between the two of them... He remembers that promise; how he _broke_ it.

 

People visit his brother's house often, bringing whispered words of war and terror from the North East. Along with the words come glances his way (if he leaves his room, that is). They must not trust him. They _hate_ him, don't they? He would, if he were them. After all, it was _his_ fault. _His_ scientists were the first to design nuclear weapons, _he_ reinvented the concept of world domination. It was his fault. _His fault._

 

_(One day, it's too much. He leaves the sitting room with tears in his eyes and hands shaking, and his brother asks questions that he doesn't want to hear.)_

 

Huddled in some dark corner, he curls in on himself, burying his face into his knees and trying to calm. _("It's not my fault... It's not my fault.... " he mumbles, but some part of his mind whispers **Yes it is**.)_

 

He startles at the sound of boots against the wooden floor, watches with wide eyes as they approach, presses against the wall when they crouch and reach for him. Why? He's not sure. Some part of him - some shoved-away and forgotten shred of hope, a fragment of light in his heart - yearns to reach back, to call out and never let go. But he knows now that attachments are dangerous, knows that he's refused their touch, hurt them, driven this kind-hearted soul away too many times. He knows what he did to them, and now, seeing him like this, he must _disgust_  them.

 

And yet they touch him - fingers carding through his hair in a touch so familiar that he shakes, the ache in his heart intensifying.

 

He does not deserve this. Does not deserve the unsteady and calloused hands that gently pull him close. Does not deserve the softly murmured words against his scalp and forehead in a language he has not heard in years. 

 

Looking up, he reaches a trembling hand out, stopping  -  _hesitating_  - centimeters from their cheek. They simply smile at him, violet eyes tinged with a sort of sadness, those messy blond curls half-covered by a grey hat. He slowly draws his hand back, looking down.

 

 _"I-I..."_ He sniffles quietly, wiping his face with his sleeve. God, he must look _pathetic_. _"I'm sorry..."_

 

 _"I know,"_ they say, rubbing his back in a soothing manner. (Years ago, he might have tensed at the motion, forcing the person away with sharp words and a sharper blade, but now he merely curves into their touch.) _"I forgive you."_

 

He does not deserve their kindness, or their ability to forgive him after what he did. But if they truly believe in him, and are willing to give him a second chance.....

 

Maybe he could try.

**Author's Note:**

> Now with a playlist [here!](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL39SFV7jU0WtMr3XnPKb1jJr13Dzx9BDR)


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